


A Feminine Construct

by nerdyvixen



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: F/F, also featuring two bisexual disasters Trying Their Best, because being an overly educated asshole is gender neutral, femme!Strand AU, journalism is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off, platonic Nic Silver & Alex Reagan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21776560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyvixen/pseuds/nerdyvixen
Summary: Their working relationship got off to a decidedly rocky start, but when Dr. Regina Strand offers Alex Reagan a new black tape concerning a gruesome festival that's practically in her backyard, she can't help but go along. Professional curiosity is one thing--everyone knows Alex can't help herself when it comes to a good story--but an increasingly unprofessional fascination with the good doctor herself is another. There's something about Regina Strand that's captivating, and this new black tape is only a part of it.
Relationships: femme!Strand/Alex Reagan
Comments: 26
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aproclivity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aproclivity/gifts).



> So my darling Aproclivity brought up the femme!Strand!AU idea almost a year ago, and this fic exists solely because she was kind enough to let me play with said idea for my own entertainment. Thank you, beloved.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Alex?”

Whenever Nic asks that question, Alex knows whatever she’s doing _isn’t_ a good idea, at least in regards to her personal safety or professional integrity. Like calling up suspected murderers for a story. Or flying to Greece on a whim for research. Amalia. Their Ethics in Journalism professor their junior year, ironically enough. And there was the whole “not sleeping for three days straight while trying to expose anti-homeless bills getting hidden under proposed municipal legislation and then attending a protest and shouting at a riot cop” incident, too.

Nic Silver is usually right to question her. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t rankle.

“Nope,” she answers cheerfully, digging around in the bottom drawer of her desk for the extra batteries she’s sure she stashed there for her recorder. “But it’s not like Dr. Strand is going to offer to drive all the way out to Charlesworth with me any day of the week, you know?”

“You said that about Amalia, and where did you end up with that?”

“Not Charlesworth, that’s for sure.”

“No, not Charlesworth,” Nic agrees, “but definitely almost in jail.”

“That was _one time._ ” Her fingers close around the batteries, and she wriggles them out from underneath a pile of files with a small triumphant noise. “Besides, it’s just a little road trip. I can always rent a car and drive back if she starts being _particularly_ Strand-like.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He watches her check her messenger bag for the third time. “I mean, after that whole mess with the Torres family, and then the Unsound—it’s not too late to back out of this. I know a guy who does aura paintings for a living; you could go interview _him_ , you know. There are plenty of other interesting people with interesting jobs who aren’t, you know, manipulative assholes with multiple degrees and a lot of secrets.”

She tilts her head and raises her eyebrow at him. “Reminding me how many secrets Dr. Strand has is not actually a deterrent, Nic. It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

He sighs and flops onto the soft couch in her office, tugging a throw pillow onto his lap and picking at the embroidery on it—a sure tell that he’s actually worried and not just putting on his technically-the-boss hat. “I _do_ know you, Alex,” he says after a moment. “That’s the problem. Because I know you still haven’t put a passcode on your phone—”

She groans and unplugs her phone charger from the wall. “I _know_ , I know. I’ll get around to it. It just wasn’t important—”

“Someone got into your phone and left you that message— _she’s not who you think_ —and then you got that weird message from that guy—”

“It’s not the first time I’ve gotten weird messages from random men.” Her voice is sharp.

“I know it’s not.” There’s the familiar placating note as he speaks. “We’ve been friends since college. I remember your stalker. And the guy who sent you those recordings. And all the other ones you tried to pretend weren’t really happening—and don’t try to protest, Alex, please. ‘Hey, Nic, how would you file a restraining order?’ That wasn’t even _subtle_ —”

“—and it doesn’t have anything to do with my going with Strand to Charlesworth.” She closes her laptop and unplugs the charger, then winds the cord and tucks both into her bag. “She had a black tape, and I know an olive branch when I see it. I don’t know, Nic, I just…I feel like she’s got the story I need to tell. And our listeners love her.”

Nic snorts inelegantly. “It’s not the listeners I’m worried about.”

“What the hell does that mean?"

He gives her a long look until she has to glance away. “You know exactly what that means.”

“I’m not—it’s not like I’m _besotted_ with her or anything—”

“Alex.”

She stops, sighs, and perches on the edge of her desk, staring at her feet in their sensible flats until she can look up at meet Nic’s eyes. He shifts on the couch until he’s cross-legged, the throw pillow clutched to his chest, and she hates how readily she pick apart everything flitting through his head: concern, anxiety, and familiarity, because she has a type. She always has: tall, tragic, wry, sharp. Nic knows this. He’s witnessed it. This is not a new story for either of them.

“I just,” she says finally, “want to tell _this_ story. I think it’s the right thing to do. I’ll be careful, Nic, I promise.”

Something in his expression twists, and she stares at him until he groans and lets his head flop back against the back of the couch. “I have to say it,” he says, mostly to the ceiling, “because I’m your boss, and because I’m your friend, but your normal careful isn’t enough. I know times are changing—believe me, I get that—but…I mean, if it were just in Seattle, or down in Portland—hell, even if it were in Spokane, or if you were back in California—I wouldn’t be so concerned. But you and I both know how people in small towns get, and it’s not like—”

“This is about Coralee Jacobson, isn’t it?”

Nic sighs and rakes a hand through his curls. “Yes. And no. It’s about the fact that Dr. Strand had, for all intents and purposes, a _wife_. A wife who went missing in suspicious circumstances that she neglected to mention to you, and now you’re traipsing off to Podunk, Washington, where you _know_ how people get, where I know how _you_ get, and you can’t pretend you’re not going to—”

“That I’m not going to _what_ , Nic?” She can hear acid in every word and doesn’t bother to temper it; she’s known Nic for too long to coddle him right now, and he’s known her for too long to expect that. “You act like I’m going to embark on this torrid affair with Dr. Strand while we’re investigating a black tape. Like I’m going to spin this into some tragedy and plop myself in the center of it because we both know how much I just _love_ queer tragedies.”

He winces. “I’m not trying to say you’re going to do something stupid. I mean…” He stops and laughs ruefully. “We know I don’t have any room to talk when it comes to…”

“…to ill-advised hookups? Yeah, how’s that weird corporate sugar daddy thing working out for you?”

“I probably deserved that,” he mutters to himself.

“You definitely did,” she agrees.

“Anyway,” he carries on, intentionally louder, “I just…this whole thing? These tapes, Dr. Strand herself, the story…it’s all got the hallmarks of something that will eat you alive, Alex, and I wouldn’t be a good friend to you if I didn’t say something. I know it’s hard for you in a way I won’t understand because—”

“—because I’m a woman, and you’re not—”

“—because you’re a woman, and I’m not,” he repeats. “So I know there are things about how you live your life I won’t understand. But it’s not—you know I get the whole queer thing. I do. Better than most. And I get the whole being-your-friend thing. That’s the part of me that’s worried the most.”

He falls silent. She looks him over, and her journalist training notes the things that contextualize his quiet: the way he tugs at one of the curls along his temple, the way his fingers dig into the pillow, the way he rolls his lower lip between his teeth to catch all the things he wants to say but doesn’t know how to before they catch voice and air. Her years of being his friend note the other things: the tightness around his eyes that only shows up when he’s anxious, the way he shakes his foot instead of blurting out all the misgivings he has, the way he abandons the curls to run his fingers over the bi pride pin currently hiding the hole in his sleeve cuff. All of these things add up to one truth, that he knows her, or rather, that he has grown to both know and care about her, and thus, he’s measuring out his words in a way she’s never quite figured out how to do.

She sighs then slides off her desk to flop down next to him on the couch and burrow under his arm, tucking her face against his neck familiarly. “I know you’re just worried about me,” she says finally. “And I appreciate that. I really do. But I’m a big girl, and I can take care of myself, and it really hurts that I feel like you don’t trust me to do my job.”

“You asked me to check you,” he reminds her. His arm tightens around her shoulders briefly. “Sometimes it’s really hard to be your boss and your friend. I don’t know where the lines are.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t—I’m not _trying_ to disrespect you or imply you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know you’re not.”

Silence. She shifts a little bit, enough that she can watch his pulse flutter in the hollow of his throat.

“Be careful,” he says, which is normal.

“I will be,” she lies, which is normal, too.

“Don’t get murdered,” he says, which they both know is more of a warning for her heart and her head than her body.

“I’ll do my best,” she promises, which they both know is not much of a promise at all.

An intern knocks on the open door—Greta, Alex remembers, their newest one, the pretty journalism major with soft brown hair and a softer smile and a mind like razor wire behind it. “Alex? Dr. Strand’s in the lobby.” To her credit, she says nothing about seeing the two of them curled up together, and not for the first time, Alex wonders if the betting pool the interns run on inter-office hookups is skewing more towards her and her producing partner or her and whomever she happens to be interviewing that week. _You could have chemistry with a garbage can,_ Nic had told her once. _And I’ve seen the people you’ve dated, so I know that’s pretty accurate._

She’d pinched him in retaliation, and, like he had so recently, he had conceded he’d deserved that.

“Thanks, Greta,” she says warmly, sliding out from under Nic’s arm and standing. “I just need to get my bags together real quick, and then I’ll be out in the lobby, if you could let her know?”

Greta nods and leaves, and Alex collects her bags—the stuffed duffel bag that she always takes with her on trips that could span up to a week and her messenger bag with all of her devices and tech. “We’re only going to be gone for a few days,” she reminds Nic as she slings the messenger bag across her chest. “We’re just planning on two days in Charlesworth proper, maybe another if things end up panning out, and a day there and a day back. It’s about six hours from us, maybe a little more with traffic. I’ll call you if I think we’re going to be longer. The festival starts tomorrow, so this should be pretty quick.”

He nods, professionalism slipping over his features like a mask, and gets up from the couch to walk her to the lobby. “Text me when you get there,” he tells her. “And please don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

She laughs and shoos him out the door so she can lock her office behind them. “Please, Nic—how would I ever get anything done?"


	2. Better The Monster You Know

Dr. Regina Strand is many things: tall, striking, in possession of a set of cheekbones Alex is privately certain she’d kill someone to have, impeccably dressed, frighteningly intelligent, and also the most irritating driver she’s ever been in a car with. The speedometer has never swung over sixty, even on the quieter stretches of I-90, and Strand never betrays anything remotely resembling road rage, never flips off drivers who blare past them as though the screaming horn is a speed boost, never swings around a semi, never drives closer than thirty feet to the car in front of them, and worst of all, she never sings along with the oldies station that underscores their drive. This is frankly the biggest tragedy, as far as Alex is concerned.

_She has a voice for radio,_ she muses. _I bet she can sing._ Out loud, she says, “Thanks again for driving us, Dr. Strand.”

“It’s no trouble,” Strand responds, and Alex would almost say she responded with ease, except there is nothing about her that suggests ease. Even the perfect drape of her black silk blouse ( _her silk blouse,_ runs the mantra of disbelief in Alex’s head, _because who the hell wears a silk blouse on a six-hour drive?_ ) is lined with deliberation. She wears perfectly fitted trousers with a subtle charcoal pinstripe, sleek black heels that could function as a murder weapon, and a delicate silver chain with a tiny sapphire pendant. It gleams in the late morning light, almost matching the blue of her eyes behind her very serious and academic black-framed glasses. She’s stark, all of her, black glasses and black blouse and dark trousers against pale skin and blue eyes and cool blonde hair and faint smile painted with rosy gloss—

\--a faint smile that broadens, just a touch, as Strand looks over in time to catch her staring.

_Fuck,_ thinks Alex, trying not to blush.

“It’s the least I could do,” Strand continues, tapping a little rhythm on the steering wheel as she very carefully doesn’t push the rental car past sixty miles per hour. “Given how our last interactions have gone. There’s no sense in both of us driving and having to pay for the gas, and the board was generous enough to make sure that I had a vehicle at my disposal while I’m in Seattle.”

“That’s definitely nice.” Alex shifts in the passenger seat, digging in her bag at her feet for her recorder and her notes. Her phone is already tucked in her sweatshirt pocket. The PNWS hoodie is well-loved, well-worn, and a road trip staple, but next to the impeccably dressed Dr. Strand, she feels even less polished than usual. _But I’m actually comfortable_ , she reminds herself as she glances over at the strong pressed crease running down the length of Strand’s trousers, then at the frayed ends of her sweatshirt sleeves. _Which is the most important part of a road trip, anyway._

_Damn, we’ve still got five hours to go._

“It’s too loud to record too much audio here,” Alex says, “but I’d like to talk about this tape. I want to make sure I’m clear on the details before I do the intro recording for the episode.”

Strand nods once, curtly. “What questions do you have?”

“Let me make sure I’ve got this all correct.” She pulls out her notes and flips through them. She doesn’t particularly _need_ the notes—a good memory, plenty of practice, and the fact that she’s _actually good at her job, Nicodemus_ means that she has the details stored readily in her mind—but it’s something to do that isn’t staring at Strand and marveling at the way the woman stores authority in every line of her body like a battery. “So we’re going to Charlesworth, Washington in time for the Festival of the Upside-Down Face. It’s an urban legend, isn’t it? One that sprang up after a really gruesome murder back in—”

“—in 1957,” Strand confirms. "After--"

"--prom, when Sarah Bennings slit Catherine Williams' throat and then…" Alex stops for a moment, swallowing back a visceral spike of revulsion. "...and then sliced off her face and stitched it back on upside-down."

"That's the bare bones of it, but yes." Strand resumes her tapping rhythm on the steering wheel. "But the tape sent to me concerns the death of Fiona DeNevers. Security camera footage shows Ms. DeNevers exiting the bank where she works at night when she is approached by a hooded figure. She appears to scream, then collapses to the ground. Paramedics later determined her cause of death to be a heart attack. She was twenty-three years old."

“Awfully young for a heart attack.”

“Indeed.” Her fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel, and a thin, pale shaft of errant sunlight catches on her manicure. _I thought she’d go more traditional,_ Alex notes. _Shell pink, or even a merlot red. Something subtle or classic. But that’s—she chose lavender._ "But given the context of the festival," Strand continues, and Alex blinks until she can drag her eyes away from the pale purple sheen on her fingertips, "it's worth investigating further. We won’t find anything, of course, but--"

"--but it's better to look than dismiss out of hand," Alex finishes. She adjusts her seatbelt across her chest, more to have something to do with the coil of combined anxiety, disgust, and fascination curling low in her belly than out of any real need. "God, I just--a young woman was murdered by someone who clearly needed help, and now it's some carnival?"

"God has nothing to do with it," Strand says, quite dryly. "People are always fascinated by the strange and the macabre. They'll spin all manner of stories about events like these to try to make sense of them when it's really just bad people doing bad things.”

"Bad people doing bad things." Alex tilts her head. "Do you really believe that?"

"I’ve not been given any reason to believe otherwise." Something thrums in Strand's voice, a strange note emerging from the plucked string of tension running suddenly down her throat, and Alex remembers the articles she and Nic found about the disappearance of Coralee Jacobson, about the suspicion that lay squarely on the shoulders of the cool blonde next to her, about the rumors and the heartache, about the mystery of Regina Strand herself, reclusive and brilliant and edged and— 

\-- _I can’t take my eyes off her._ "Is this really something that has to do with belief?" Alex asks softly.

"With humanity, what doesn’t?” Strand laughs, almost bitter, almost cold. “But that’s part of my work—to take the need for blind faith out of the everyday. We shouldn’t have to invent circuses around banal living simply to survive. Knowledge and facts— _these_ are things worth holding onto and worth taking into the unknown. Tragedy turned spectacle will only drive us further away from truth.”

“You’ve dealt with this before, then--tragedy turned spectacle, I mean?”

“It's hardly my first experience with the public fetishizing perceived murderesses." Each word comes out clipped and sharp, history running underneath them like a fault line. "People are entranced by women who kill."

“You act like this is something personal.”

Strand smiles, though there is no humor in it, no joy. “You act like there isn’t a part of every single woman who finds more in common with monsters than men.”

_I remember your stalker,_ comes Nic’s voice in her head. _And the guy who sent you those recordings. And the dead rat in your mailbox. And all the other ones you tried to pretend weren’t really happening._ “Sometimes they’re the same thing,” Alex says.

There’s a shift to Strand’s expression, one she can’t immediately identify and knows she will spend the rest of the day parsing. “Isn’t it fascinating, then, that our common thread isn’t our humanity but our monstrosity?” Strand looks away, back to the road. “And so people invent carnivals and rituals to distance themselves from the monsters inside. Pick a culture, any culture in the world, and there will be some sort of death theater or sympathetic magic there, some rite dressed up in holiness to allow them to experience monstrosity and death only to then be absolved of them." The tapping of her painted fingers resumes, keeping time with the faint hiss of the radio. "The only effective way to eradicate monsters is to face them head-on, I've found."

_Somehow,_ thinks Alex, _that feels like an invitation._ “It depends on what you mean by head-on,” she responds. “Sarah Bennings did, but she did it with a knife. We don't all walk around with weapons, you know? Some of us just have kindness in our pockets.”

“Everything is a weapon in its time, Alex.”

She frowns. “Not everything has to be.”

For a long moment, Strand is silent. Outside is the sea-roar of traffic, the blurred green of trees, and inside the car is the muted sound of the radio; it takes a minute, but Alex picks up words: _her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright, but she’s not there—_

Strand reaches out and turns the radio down further. “Did you have any other questions about the tape, Ms. Reagan?”

“The tape. Right.” Alex clears her throat, pulling out her phone to have its comforting weight in her hands. “So. Sarah Bennings murdered Catherine Williams. Did the whole face thing. It would have faded into the one scar across the town’s history if it hadn’t been for Wilson Pepper in the ‘80s, who resurrected the story as a…a tourist thing?”

“A tourist thing.” Strand’s tone merges back into the smooth didactic one that had marked every one of her interviews that Alex had heard. "Succinct, but not inaccurate. Pepper spun the story into the urban legend that saturates the town today in order to drum up business for his hotel. He's responsible for this chicanery."

"Chicanery." She snorts. "Speaking of succinct but not inaccurate…"

To her surprise, Strand laughs, that particular huff of amusement that Alex is pretty sure she doesn't trot out in just anyone's company. "You _do_ listen," she notes.

"I'm a professional listener," Alex points out. "Kind of my job, isn't it?"

"And you _are_ good at your job." Strand's cool blue gaze flickers over to her, and even that brief favor of her attention is troublingly gratifying. Too quickly, though, she turns her eyes back to the road and resumes speaking. "So Pepper did what so many men are wont to do and turned a woman’s tragedy into profit. Popular rumor is that Catherine Williams haunts the town in protest of her violent death being sensationalized."

"I don't think I blame her."

"No, I don't imagine that you would."

_Oh, because_ that's _not a loaded statement._ Alex stares down at her phone as it chimes loudly. The notification light blinks merrily at her, cheerful and green, and she swipes her phone open to find a message from Nic.

_To Alex: How's it going? Has Strand whisked you away to parts unknown?_

She glances over at Strand, who is staring at the double yellow lines of the road like they're her own personal Rosetta Stone.

_To Nic: She drives like my mother. This is going to be a long trip._

"So," she says out loud, "we're going to look into the death of Fiona DeNevers in a place with an active urban legend that was spun out of control by a hotel owner who wanted to bring in more tourists who want to come in and...what, gawk at two families and a quiet town torn apart by violence over sixty years ago?" 

Strand glances at her sideways, and when she responds, her tone is suspiciously even. “I can always turn around if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“I didn’t say that. I just…” Alex sighs and leans back against her seat, fighting the urge to put her feet up on the dashboard. Nic has enough to say about that any time they road-trip together; she doesn’t particularly want to see what kind of barb the habit can pull from Regina Strand’s tongue. “I’ve been doing this job for closer to fifteen years than not, in one form or another, you know? And I don’t think I’m ever going to get over what people do in response to violence and death."

_To Alex: Damn. Can you put on the radio or something? Don’t think I don’t know you weaponize your song choices._  
_To Alex: Remember that trip back from Vancouver our second year of grad school? When you were mad at me because of that fight with your mom?_  
_To Alex: You played “Fuck You” on repeat._  
_To Alex: For two hours straight. I haven’t been able to listen to Lily Allen since._

“It’s fear, primarily.” 

Alex looks up from her phone. “Fear?”

_To Nic: She has a lavender manicure._

“Fear,” Strand repeats. Her fingers tap out a strange rhythm on the wheel again. “Instead of seeking out catharsis and understanding, people paint over their fear with more violence. ‘Better the devil you know,’ they say, and they become what they’re afraid of. It’s much easier to live with the monsters when you know how deep their teeth can sink into you.”

“Easier, maybe, but…” Alex trails off. A message comes in, and she opens it automatically.

_To Alex: That’s weird. She seems like someone who wouldn’t paint her nails at all._  
_To Alex: Or she’d get red or something. Very 50s and classic, you know?_

“But what?”

“But the worst monsters aren’t under your bed,” she says quietly, keeping her eyes on her phone. “They’re in it, next to you.” 

_To Nic: That’s what I thought, but no._  
_To Nic: Lavender. The softest lavender I think I could imagine._

For a long moment, there is silence in the car, broken only by the atmospheric sounds around them. “Do you know much about monsters, then, Alex?” Strand asks finally.

She remembers the dismissive look on his face when her Ethics professor had handed her clothes back to her after he’d fucked her for the last time, the way her gut twisted when he told her his previously-unmentioned fiancee was back in town so of course he wouldn’t need _her_ for anything anymore. She remembers the hatred in the eyes of the white supremacists marching through the streets during one of the first demonstrations she’d ever written about. She remembers the way she had always smiled at the little old woman who lived next door to her in her first post-undergrad apartment building until the day she’d brought over one of her classmates to work on a project; the racist vitriol the woman had spewed at her friend had led to an almost-fistfight and her breaking her lease to move in with Nic, just to get away.

“More than I’d like to,” she admits. “But I don’t always think it’s fear that makes people the worst versions of themselves. Sometimes it’s just hate.”

“Fear, hate--sometimes even love. They’re bedfellows more than we’d like to admit they are.” Something shimmers beneath the surface of Strand’s voice, and the still, watchful part of Alex recognizes it as an ache so old it has become a habit. “For all we like to speak of grace, it’s fear that strips us to our core. It’s easy to find out what a man will do for love. Find out what he’ll do for fear--indeed, find out what he _truly_ fears--and you will know both the monster and the man.”

“So what do _you_ fear, Dr. Strand?” 

The question comes softly, automatically, and in the sudden ringing silence, Alex wonders if she’s stepped too far. But then Strand laughs, the strange huffy laugh that feels more authentic than anything else about the woman, and some of the tension eases. “Food poisoning,” Strand replies. “Absolutely petrified of food poisoning.”

“Right. Well, on that note…” Alex taps on her window as they pass a road sign. “There’s some restaurants a few miles ahead. Feel like stopping for some lunch?”

A little smile curves Strand’s mouth. “Just tell me which exit you’d like to take.”

Alex nods and curls back up in her seat, opening her texts back up.

_To Nic: We’re going to stop for lunch soon. I’m thinking Jack in the Box._  
_To Nic: It’s normal to talk about what you’re afraid of with a professional skeptic, right?_  
_To Nic: Her greatest fear is food poisoning._

“The next exit has restaurants,” she says aloud. “We can find something to eat. You don’t have any allergies, right?”

_To Alex: That’s weird that you’d pick Jack in the Box, then._

“No allergies,” Strand replies, merging over with the infuriating care and precision she had demonstrated every mile of the drive so far. “I wouldn’t mind a tea, though.”

_To Nic: I know, right? She strikes me as the type of person who’d eat a burger with a knife and fork._

“I’m sure we can find a place to get you tea.” Alex cranes her neck and peers at the signs she can see from the road. _Maybe there’s a Panera or something…_ “If nothing else, it looks like there’s a Fred Meyer up ahead a few miles--we could always get a box of something and a travel mug.” Her phone chimes, and she glances back down.

_To Alex: Yeah, but it’s weird that you’re gonna stop at a Jack in the Box when you just told me her greatest fear is food poisoning._  
_To Nic: THAT WAS ONE TIME._  
_To Nic: And you had as many tacos as I did._

“Is everything all right, Alex?”

She looks up from her phone. “Sorry, what?”

“Is everything all right?” Strand repeats. “You had a funny look on your face.”

“It’s nothing important,” she assures her. “Nic was just wondering how the drive was going. I told him I was thinking about Jack in the Box for lunch--it was a joke when we were in college.”

“A joke. Right.” It’s not _entirely_ a dismissal, but it’s definitely not an invitation to elaborate, either. “Well, there’s one on the right here. Let’s get something quick and then move on. I’d like to have time to settle this evening before we get into Charlesworth proper tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go ahead, listen to "She's Not There" by The Zombies and have some Coralee Strand-adjacent feelings. It's fun!


	3. Hide It In The Hiding Place Where No One Ever Goes

After a quick lunch (and Dr. Regina Strand, dual doctorate, does eat fast food burgers with a knife and fork, Alex discovers), they get back on the road, making another quick stop and pulling off three exits ahead to stop into a Fred Meyer for a travel mug and tea. They get hot water from the Starbucks kiosk inside the store, and Alex spends thirty desperate seconds making resigned eye contact with the poor barista who listens to Strand’s clipped diatribe about the _proper_ water temperature for steeping teas with a strained professional smile on his face.

“You could have just said thank you,” she tells Strand as they get back into the car.

Strand sniffs and settles into the driver’s seat, setting the travel mug in the cupholder beside her. “This tea is going to be bitter--”

“Just like you at that barista for something he had no control over?”

The words come out before Alex can think, and it takes a not-inconsiderable amount of self-control not to immediately spew apologies. _Always be nice to your driver,_ Nic insists before every single trip they take together. _Which means please stop telling me that you could get there faster in a hearse._

_Yeah, I know that’s right,_ she protests to the imaginary Nic in her head, _but_ you _aren’t an asshole to service workers, especially for no good reason, especially--_

“You’re right.”

She stops her internal defense, blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I said that you’re right.” Strand turns on the car, backs out of the parking space, and heads back to the highway. “It’s...it’s been some time since I’ve taken a trip with someone else, business or pleasure. I’ve been on edge.”

“On edge,” she echoes.

The corner of Strand’s mouth twitches, and-- _no, Nic, I’m not staring at her mouth, shut up_ \-- “Shall I repeat everything I say, or are you going to put those listening skills to good use, Ms. Reagan?”

“I just--” Alex stops and sighs. “That’s the closest thing to an apology I’m going to hear from you, isn’t it?”

Strand scoffs, but there is a strange edge to it, as if she is dismissing herself as much as she’s dismissing Alex. “You aren’t as good at listening as I thought if you think by now that I’m a kind person.”

The trees outside the window are silent. Alex watches the speedometer as Strand accelerates to sixty and resolutely stays there. “There’s nothing inherently wrong with being kind, you know.”

“Kindness,” says Strand, “is a feminine construct.”

“There’s nothing inherently wrong with being feminine, either.” 

“You’re being pedantic.”

“I’m not being--you know what? Forget it. I’m just...I’ll look over my notes. Get an itinerary going for tomorrow.” She reaches down for her notes again, rifling through them with more force than strictly necessary. _Here are the technical notes on the tape itself, here is my research on Charlesworth, here is my list of people to talk to in town specifically, nowhere is any reason not to rip Strand a new one for being such an asshole--_

Next to her in the driver’s seat, Strand exhales like she’s preparing herself to say something; Alex stiffens, but instead of speaking, the other woman reaches over and turns on the radio, louder than before. A few notes come through the speakers, ones Alex nearly recognizes, then:

_We’d like to know a little bit about you for our files._  
_We’d like to help you learn to help yourself--_

“Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes,” she sings along under her breath, tugging out her notes on Charlesworth itself. “Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home--”

“And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson--Jesus loves you more than you will know--”

She stops and glances up at Strand, whose eyes are fixed resolutely on the road in front of them. Still, the other woman is singing along, her rich voice unexpectedly husky, and a tiny part of Alex crows in victory at the sound.

“God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson.” Strand continues to sing with the radio. It comes across nearly idle, instinctive, but Alex can see the tight grip the other woman has on the steering wheel and recognizes the act for what it is: a peace offering, held in a clenched fist. “Heaven holds a place for those who pray--”

“What do you think about that?” Alex interrupts.

Strand blinks, then reaches over and turns down the radio. “About what?”

“That Heaven holds a place for those who pray?”

Strand snorts and half-smiles. “I think that I believe that about as much as I believe that a Starbucks barista will ever have the tools at his disposal to properly brew tea.”

It's not an apology. Alex knows she's barely scratched the surface of Regina Strand, but she _does_ know this is as close as she's going to get to one, and so, for the sake of the remaining three and a half hours of the drive, for the sake of the rest of this trip, for the sake of making it back to Seattle _without_ throttling the subject of her show, she smiles. _A feminine construct,_ she repeats to herself as Strand accelerates and the needle on the speedometer inches towards sixty-five. _Because there wasn’t enough baggage on this trip already._

The rest of the drive passes quietly; like seemingly everything else about her except for her niceties, Strand’s sense of direction is impeccable, and she manages to find a back road that takes them to the hotel in the next town over from Charlesworth where she had booked them rooms nearly thirty minutes faster than their plotted route. She parks carefully and exits the car, managing to make even that simple, necessary movement a statement of grace and power.

It is distinctly unfair to Alex, who almost drags her messenger bag out of the car with her foot as she gets out.

Thankfully, Strand doesn’t comment, instead opening the trunk and hauling out their bags. “I’ll handle the room charges,” she says, handing Alex’s duffel to her. “It’s the least I can do.”

“You already drove us all the way out here,” Alex protests. “There’s no need for that, really--I have the studio’s credit card, and--”

“--and I’ve already booked it with _my_ card, so really, it’s a moot point.” Strand hoists her bag over her shoulder, somehow not wrinkling her silk blouse, and smiles. The expression stays on her mouth and does not reach any further. “Besides, my publisher wanted to do something to express her gratitude. I had to talk her out of a fruit basket.”

“The interns would have loved it.”

“Ah, yes, the interns.”

There’s a sour note underscoring Strand’s rich voice, and Alex frowns as they make their way to the hotel entrance. “Did Greta say something to you?”

“Is she the little brunette?”

“With the pretty hair and that weirdly invasive stare? Yep. Why? Did she say anything?”

Strand’s expression is largely unreadable, though Alex has her suspicions as to what that particular tightness to her jawline means: namely, that Greta _does_ have a sharp tongue but sharper insight, and that the interns gossip like hens, and everyone seems oddly fascinated about who has attracted her attention at any given point in time. “She didn’t _say_ anything,” Strand says finally, pushing open the door and gesturing for her to go through. “But you know, of course, how well women communicate without words. She has some opinions about me, I think.”

“Does she?”

"Again with the repetition, Ms. Reagan."

Alex sighs. "It's an invitation to share, Dr. Strand. Casual conversation. We can do that, right?"

Strand looks over at her as they approach the front desk, and while the look in her eyes is completely transparent, Alex has to blink to make sure she's seeing it correctly. 

_That's interest._

Just as soon as she catalogues it, it vanishes, and Strand turns to the front desk clerk, a young woman whose nametag reads _Miranda_ and whose eyes read _I have fifteen minutes left on my shift and not even another potentially ghostly murder will make me leave late._ “I have a reservation,” Strand says. “Two rooms, under the name Regina Strand.”

“Regina Strand,” Miranda repeats dutifully, almost robotically, as she clicks a few buttons on her computer screen. “Yes, two rooms. I’m sorry, but we didn’t have them available next to each other--will that be a problem? With the festival in Charlesworth--”

“It’s fine.”

Alex watches Miranda shrink back into her seat at Strand’s crisp tone. The clerk clicks a few more buttons then offers a wobbly smile. “And I just need to see an ID and your credit card, please?” 

They appear as if by magic-- _but of course she doesn't believe in magic,_ Alex notes as Miranda takes the cards and checks the photo against the intimidating woman in front of her. _She had them at the ready because Dr. Regina Strand is never unprepared for anything--_

She stops and blinks; a key card has materialized in front of her nose. "Room 205," Strand informs her. "I'll meet you there in a half hour. You wanted to go over the itinerary once more?" It takes a moment for Alex to remember that she _had_ asked to go over their game plan for the next couple of days once they got to the hotel; her focus has narrowed to the lavender polish on Strand's fingertips. In the light of the hotel lobby, the color is cooler than she had realized, and only the faintest hint of warmth in it prevents it from being classified as seafoam blue. "Right," she says as she takes the key card from Strand. "Room 205. Just knock, and I'll get the door for you."

Her traveling companion nods once, curtly, and takes her own key card before bending to collect her luggage and start for the stairwell. For a strange, wild moment, Alex half-wants to follow Strand to her room, to observe how she behaves in private, to analyze all the quiet ways she keeps secrets folded up in between travel-ready silk blouses and utterly impractical shoes, but before she can stop herself from reaching out for Strand’s suitcase, too, she sees Miranda frown. "Mrs. Strand?" the clerk calls. "I'm sorry, the computer is acting up--could I see your card again?"

It is a peculiar thing, Alex realizes distantly, to watch an ice age quicken and personify in the space of a breath: the barely civil veneer Strand wears freezes into arctic irritation, and she can nearly see the cold of the heart of winter crawl up the other woman's spine. Strand turns sharply and takes the few steps back to the desk, each one a sharp retort from her deadly heels against the linoleum.

Miranda quails, and Alex privately doesn’t blame her; Strand's rose-colored mouth is knife-thin. "Doctor," she snaps out as she flicks out her credit card.

“I’m sorry?” Miranda quavers.

“It’s _Dr._ Strand.”

"Right. Dr. Strand. Sorry." The clerk takes the card from Strand with two fingers as though it is a venomous extension of the deep freeze of a woman in front of her, then swipes it once--too quickly--twice--too slow--then for a third time. Her computer, completely unaware of the tension, chirps merrily at them. "Here," Miranda stammers. "Your card, Dr. Strand. I'm so sorry for the inconvenience."

“It’s an insult, not an inconvenience.” Strand tucks her card back in her wallet; her eyes are unreadable behind her glasses, though Alex can see how easily Miranda is getting fury out of the sharp line of her jaw. " _Mrs._ Strand. Tch."

The clerk wilts, and something in Alex steels. "I'm so sorry about this," she cuts in, letting a little bit of the Canadian accent she'd worked hard to soften come back out and round the vowels. It's charming, and she knows it is, but more importantly, it's disarming: Miranda stops flinching away from Strand and turns to her instead, her eyes wide and vulnerable, and Alex smiles gently. _It’s okay. I’m the nice one._ "We've had a really long drive today," she offers, "and my colleague's blood sugar got a little low. I'm going to get some chocolate or something into her in a minute and see if that helps." She winks. Miranda, as expected, laughs.

Having to grease the wheels with kindness is nothing new; she and Nic call it ‘weaponizing the Canadian stereotype,’ and Paul and Terry never bother to correct them, so Alex carries on easily. “I really appreciate you making sure the reservations were handled properly--we've got a lot to do tomorrow, and it's going to be one less thing to worry about, knowing this is all settled."

All the anxiety melts from Miranda’s frame, and she smiles now, her whole face suddenly softer and brighter. "It was no trouble, really. I'm sorry we couldn't get you adjacent rooms. Um...I could get you vouchers for the hotel bar? They're good for a free drink and an appetizer.”

 _I will need to drink the entire bar by the time this trip is up, if this is how Strand's going to behave,_ Alex thinks, but outwardly, she smiles. "Thanks, Miranda. That's really nice of you." 

Miranda beams and bends to rifle through one of her desk drawers. As soon as the clerk is out of view, Strand turns to her sharply. Alex knows she barely knows Regina Strand--six hours in the car with her have yielded surprisingly little information--but she knows immediately and instinctively that the other woman is ready to lash out with an acid tongue. It is just as immediate an instinct to slip her hand around Strand’s elbow the same way she would Nic, her fingers digging in lightly in warning.

“Here we are!” Miranda says brightly as she pops back up, two vouchers in hand. “They’re good for use at any point during the duration of your stay, and--is everything okay?”

Alex doesn’t risk looking over at Strand. Her hand feels too warm, she knows she’s standing too close, and this entire moment, small though she knows it is, feels ready to implode. “Everything’s great,” she says. She forces herself to carefully take the vouchers from the clerk in spite of wanting to do nothing more than snatch them away. “Thanks so much for your time, Miranda. Have a _great_ night.”

With that, she wheels Strand around and all but drags her towards what she hopes is the stairwell; she’s not going to be picky, as long as it gets them out of the foyer. Her duffel bag and messenger bag knock against her hip, the rhythm of them punctuated by the sharp tattoo of Strand’s heels on the floor. She doesn’t see stairs, but she does see an elevator, and she makes a beeline for it. As soon as she reaches the controls, she slaps the _open_ button and lets out a relieved breath as the doors immediately part, revealing an empty car behind them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

She ignores Strand’s sharp query and yanks the other woman into the elevator with her, blindly reaching out to press the button for the second floor. The doors hiss shut, and there is a moment of stomach-churning motion as the elevator jolts itself awake and then ascends.

“I’m not going to have this fight with you over and over,” Alex says after a moment, before Strand can gather herself enough to speak. “We’ve already been through this once today with that poor barista. You can’t just be an asshole to people when their best doesn’t line up with what you think they should be doing. You don’t believe in psychics, anyway, so how was Miranda supposed to know about your degrees? There isn’t a box for that on room reservations. She made a reasonable assumption about your title based on what she could gather from your appearance and her training.”

Strand huffs. “Ms. Reagan--”

Alex shakes her head. “I’m not interested in watching you eviscerate people who genuinely don’t know something, _Dr._ Strand. I’m not interested in being one of your black tapes to pick apart and disprove. You don’t have to be kind. You don’t have to be nice. But if you want to continue to work with me, you’re going to have to be civil, or I _will_ go home. I’ve told plenty of stories without you before, and I’ll tell more once this one is done. Either we’re in this together, and we’re playing nice, or we’re through.”

The elevator shudders to a halt, and the doors open. Alex shifts the duffel bag and messenger bag on her shoulder and stalks out of the elevator. She does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that consistently appear in anything I've ever written: found families, work families, service workers who are decidedly not paid enough for any of this, music in the background that's basically another party in the dialogue.
> 
> I apparently have a lot of feelings about Strand and oldies music, so the trend continues.


	4. One Step Forward, Three Steps Back

In spite of her ultimatum, Alex's heart is racing, and it takes everything she has to tamp down the Orphean desire to glance behind her to the cool blonde in the elevator car. _Just get to your room,_ she coaches herself as she heads down the hallway. _Get to your room, and call Nic, and maybe then you can text Dr. Strand and...well, maybe not apologize. Or maybe I should apologize. Nic would tell me that I wasn’t professional, saying all that._

The room numbers blur as she pretends she isn’t fleeing, and she forces herself to stop and actually pay attention to where she’s going. _It’s all right. I’m allowed to put my foot down. And it wasn’t right of Strand to talk to the clerk that way. Nic can shove it._ The numbers sharpen and clear: 241, 243, 245. She blinks, then turns to head back down the hallway towards where room 205 is, half-expecting to see Strand standing just outside the elevator. Instead, the hallway is empty, and something in her ribs twinges at the sight of the blank elevator doors. 

It feels almost like disappointment.

She sighs, shifts her bags again, and heads down the hallway, making it to her room quickly. Another juggle of her bags makes it easier to dig out the keycard Strand had given her, and she awkwardly swipes it and waits for the click and the green light. Neither comes. She frowns and swipes her card again.

Nothing.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” she groans as she swipes the card for the third time. Again, nothing happens.

She lets out an aggravated exhale and knocks her head lightly against the door in frustration for a moment before straightening her spine and heading back to the elevator. “It’s not the first time my keycard’s malfunctioned on a trip,” she reasons with herself under her breath as she strides down the hall. “It’s easy to get it fixed.” She pokes at the _open_ button repeatedly until the doors part. “Just go downstairs, talk to Miranda, have her reset it--”

Her messenger bag slips down to her elbow off her shoulder as she gets into the elevator, and she sighs, letting it hit the floor of the car while she hits the button for the ground floor. _It’s that kind of day, I guess._ The doors shut, the car jerks and slowly descends, and Alex Reagan, not for the first time, wonders if this just an omen for how the rest of one of these trips is going to go.

The doors part, and she reshoulders her bag. _This is easy. I’ll get the card reset, go back upstairs, order a pizza or something, and call Nic to let him know Strand didn’t murder me. Actually, maybe I should text him now before I--_

She shifts to dig out her phone again on her way to the front desk but stops abruptly at the sound of a familiar, cool voice. Quietly, she edges forward. Strand’s bags are still at her feet, and the tall woman leans against the front desk, her arms crossed in front of her with studied casualness. 

“I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you,” Alex hears Strand says to Miranda, who, appropriately enough, looks as shocked as if she’d seen a ghost. “It’s...difficult to exist in the professional sphere as a woman. I hold a great deal of pride in my title.”

“I understand,” the clerk half-squeaks.

Strand shakes her head and leans forward conspiratorially. “You know how hard it is to get people to take you seriously,” she continues, her voice low and almost intimate, and Alex is sure that the faint blush dusting Miranda’s cheeks is mirrored on her own. “It’s reflexive, defending something I’ve worked so very hard to earn. I forget sometimes that it’s not always a battle I have to fight.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate anything bad,” Miranda says hastily. “I was trying to be polite--”

Strand laughs, and while it’s not quite the huffy laughter Alex had drawn from her in the car, it’s close, and that same disappointed twinge reverberates in Alex’s ribs at the sound as when she had looked back to the empty hallway. “And I was being unnecessarily harsh. Which is why I wanted to--”

A loud chime interrupts them, and in the breath between Alex realizing it’s her text message alert and Strand’s blue-eyed gaze flickering over to her, Alex knows she will absolutely _murder_ Nic Silver the next time she sees him.

_To Alex: Are you dead or did you just forget to text?_

Alex swipes the notification away. _You’re going to be dead, Nic, I swear to God--_

“--why I wanted to apologize,” Strand continues smoothly, her eyes lingering on Alex before she deliberately shifts her attention back to the clerk. “I’m sure a pretty little thing like you has enough trouble from people who come through here, and there’s no reason to add me to the list, now, is there?”

“N-no, ma’am,” Miranda stammers. 

Strand smiles. It’s indulgent, smug, and unfortunately captivating. “I’m glad we understand each other. Oh--your collar...may I…?”

It’s not, Alex realizes, the _most_ blatant power move disguised as flirtation she’s ever seen. That dubious honor belongs to Nic’s current paramour, the working lunch he crashed, the cup of coffee he accidentally-on-purpose spilled on her laptop during said working lunch, and the brand new laptop courier-delivered to her office by the end of the afternoon with a handwritten note simply reading _The best for Nic’s friend_. This moment is decidedly more intimate, though strangely less palatable: Strand is very carefully _not_ watching her, instead observing the way her own fingers slide over the muddled crease of Miranda’s collar, sharpening it and then easing it into a flattering angle that mirrors the slide of the clerk’s cheekbone.

 _Not,_ Alex reassures herself, _that I’m looking._

She might not be looking, but Miranda _is,_ and Alex unfortunately knows precisely what the expression on the clerk’s face means. “Thank you,” the clerk breathes. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes are wide, and there is nothing short of starstruck writ over her face. “I. Um. It’s the end of my shift, you know, so I don’t--the collar doesn’t like to stay up…”

Strand tsks, and it’s almost affectionate. “That won’t do. Appearances are important.”

“Well, yes, but--”

“Here.” Strand dips into her pocket and pulls out a slim metal wallet, then opens it and pops out a single business card. “Feel free to get in touch with my assistant. She has an unnerving grasp of fashion, and I’m sure she’ll help you find something that will withstand such long shifts.”

Alex grimaces. Miranda might not have noticed the faint chiding in Strand’s tone, but it’s there, woven in beneath the seemingly helpful offer, a shade of internalized misogyny and arrogance that the other woman wears too well. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she breaks in, “but my key card wasn’t working?”

The clerk blinks. The roses die on her cheeks as she glances down at her computer and, presumably, her desk clock. “Right,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Key cards. Sorry, we’ve been having trouble with them today. If I could see your card? And yours, too, Dr. Strand?”

Wordlessly, Strand hands hers over. Alex follows suit. She resolutely keeps her eyes averted from her colleague, instead watching Miranda reactivate the cards. The clerk seems to come back into herself as she goes through the routine actions, now that Strand’s attention is off of her. A moment later, she returns the cards; the smile on her face is distant, professional, and doesn’t touch her eyes. “There you go. If you have any other problems, please let us know. The front desk staff is always here to help you.”

“Right. Yes.” Alex clears her throat. “Well, my colleague and I have a schedule to keep, and I need to have a word with her, so. Thank you for your help, Miranda.” She jerks her chin in the direction of the hallway, then re-shoulders her bags and strides back off. After a moment, Strand follows, her heels still sharp and loud against the tile. 

_Never thought I’d be relieved to hear someone powerwalk._ Out loud, her voice carefully light, Alex asks, “So what was that display about, Dr. Strand?”

They stop in front of the elevator. Strand reaches around her to press the _open_ button. “You called me an asshole,” the other woman says after a moment.

Strand is distressingly close--certainly close enough to give Nic ample fodder for his concern. But the feeling like she _should_ care about professional distance is secondary to the way Alex can suddenly catch a burst of scent from the pulse point in Strand’s wrist, something sharp and clean with a surprising depth to it that she can’t quite place but knows she won’t forget, either. “You were _being_ an asshole to that poor clerk,” she replies, and it takes more effort than she’d like to try to calm the ringing of her pulse in her ears. “Until you got all...whatever that was on her.”

The elevator doors slide open, and she bustles inside. Strand follows; Alex can feel her watching as she pushes the button for the second floor . “You misunderstand me,” Strand says after a moment, reaching across her to press the third floor button. 

The doors shut. Alex shifts away, just enough to gain another inch of space, just enough to gain a clearer head, as the elevator lurches upward. “What do you mean?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Strand shrug. “Most people call me a bitch.”

Familiar territory, at least. “I wouldn’t use a gendered insult.”

“No,” Strand agrees easily, “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

The doors whisper open, and before Alex can ask what the _hell_ that was, Strand nods at the hallway. “I believe this is your stop. I think I should just get some rest tonight instead of going over the itinerary, so why don't we meet in the lobby tomorrow morning at nine?” She smiles, strangely. "Have a good night, Ms. Reagan." 

Alex is out in the hallway and halfway towards her room before she realizes she’d moved automatically at Strand’s dismissal. _And that was definitely a dismissal,_ she sighs. _One step forward, three steps back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention this was like
> 
> really slow?
> 
> Because. Uh.
> 
> It's really slow.
> 
> But! The plot will show up soon! Late with Starbucks, but it'll show up!


	5. Matryoshka

Thankfully, it's easy for Alex to fish out her key card; just as thankfully, it works now. She gets into her room without any further issues, then unpacks quickly and heads to the shower. There’s an ease about the whole routine, even if it’s been a while ( _since the Torres case, and maybe it hasn’t been so long, maybe it just feels like it’s been so long because having Strand around makes her feel like her life is divided into a before and after_ ) since she’s been on one of these longer jaunts for a story: unpack, set out clothes for the next day, plug in all her devices and hook up to the wifi, shower while everything is charging, call Nic. She lets herself drift through it all on autopilot, lets the hot water soothe out the solid ache in her neck that she knows she’s going to blame on Strand, and tugs on clean clothes before she calls Nic and puts the phone on speaker.

“Alex! I was starting to think you were dead!” His voice is tinny through her speakers, but it’s wonderfully familiar, and she catches herself smiling even as she towel dries her hair. “Did you get my text?”

“I did--I’m sorry I didn’t text you back yet. My room key wasn’t working, and Strand was…”

“Strand was what?”

She groans and slings the towel over the rack in the bathroom before heading back towards the bed and flopping down against the pillows. “Strand was being particularly Strand-like,” she admits.

To his credit, Nic tries to hide the smugness in his voice. “So should I help you find a rental car, or…?”

“No. I told you I wanted to tell this story, and I’m going to.”

“Okay." There's a pause, careful and deliberate, which she knows means Nic is steadying himself and biting back protests he knows will be ignored. "So what can I do for you?”

Alex sighs. It’s the work of over a decade of friendship, that question--Nic is a helper, and they both know it, but his attempts at care can run towards patronizing if he doesn’t tailor them towards what she actually needs. Usually it’s a coffee and someone to nod and smile while she spins her thoughts out to their inevitable conclusions, but now he’s six hours away, and she’s in a hotel room painted a vaguely distressing shade of beige, and in spite of his voice on the other end of the line, she feels lonely. “I don’t know,” she admits after a deep breath. “I’d say order pho, but I think we’re too deep in the woods for that.”

Nic laughs. “I’d manage to get you pho delivered on the moon if I had to, Alex. You know that.”

He absolutely would, and she does know that; his enormous heart and uncanny knack for being in the most interesting place at the most interesting time makes up for his mollycoddling. 

“We’ll have to work on that if this whole podcast thing ever goes south,” she says lightly. “Nic Silver’s Interstellar Delivery Service, coming soon to a quasar near you.”

“A quasar _isn’t_ near you, though--that’s pretty much in the definition--”

“Please don’t ruin my bad jokes with science.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I’d hate to step on Strand’s toes. That’s what you’ve got her around for, eh?” 

She sighs and scoots deeper into the pillows. “I guess.”

Nic is silent for a moment before he exhales slowly. “Okay, Alex,” he says finally. “I’m gonna put the boss hat away. I’ve checked in, you’re alive, and I know you’ve got a plan for this story, so that’s everything I need from you professionally right now. What’s _really_ bothering you?”

There are times, she knows, when she’ll put Nic Silver through the wringer. There are days when he tries all of her patience and then some, days when she hates that they have to separate work-them and friends-them, days when she disregards the careful balancing act they have to do just so she can pursue a story that seems bigger than both of them. But he sticks around still, buys her coffee and cajoles her into eating, lets her work through feelings that she’s always had to stuff down to survive as a woman in her field, and there are always moments like this one where she knows for a fact that Nic Silver loves her. Not in a way that would necessitate her bringing him home to meet her parents in a different capacity than she already has, but in a way that reminds her of seasons changing and sunrises and the tides: natural, inevitable, and with a certain amount of give-and-take built in.

So she gives. “I feel powerless,” she confesses. “I can’t get a read on her at all. Every time I feel like I’m getting closer to cracking her open, she just builds another wall. She’s like a Russian nesting doll of secrets and probably abandonment issues.”

“Do you think you’re projecting at all?”

“Nic.”

“It’s a fair question,” he says, his voice gentle. “And it wouldn’t be the first time.”

She drums her fingers on her thigh. They _do_ have almost fifteen years of friendship, ten years of a working relationship, and more bad decisions than stars in the sky between them--if anyone has earned the right to call her out on this, it’s Nic. “You’re right. It wouldn’t be.”

“So what did she do?”

“Got really short with the barista at the Freddy’s Starbucks we stopped at--she went on this whole rant about the ‘proper temperature at which to steep teas so they actually taste like tea and not like last year’s lawn clippings.’ Like this poor barista was getting paid to stand there and take that. She never apologized. We fought in the car a little, and then when we got here, she was just _awful_ to the clerk, Nic.” 

“That sounds pretty normal for Strand, from everything you’ve told me and from everything we heard from Emily DuMont and everyone else,” Nic notes. “I understand that it’s frustrating, but what makes this worse than just...Dr. Strand being Dr. Strand?”

“It just...it felt like a _game_. A game that she wasn’t going to tell me the rules of or even tell me I was supposed to be playing.”

“We know she’s manipulative.” She can hear Nic shift on the other end of the line and quiet his dog. “She’s trying to convince the public that skepticism is the way to go, and she’ll switch out the window dressing as she needs to. That’s just what she does.”

“But it’s more than that.” Alex sighs. “I just...I thought we had at least some kind of rapport, you know? She was the one to reach out, not me. And then with the clerk…”

She stops and bites back the confusing swell of emotions that rises on her tongue. On the other end of the line, Nic grows silent. She can hear his dog huff and then jump up on what is probably the couch with him, can hear the faint electric whirring of the lights, can hear the muted footsteps of someone walking past her door.

When he speaks, Nic’s voice is as gentle and careful as when he soothes his dog. “What happened with the clerk, Alex?” 

She takes the phone off speaker and tucks it between her shoulder and her ear to buy herself some time, wriggling against the strangely crinkly hotel bedspread in an attempt to find comfort.

“Alex?”

She shuts her eyes; even the mental image of Nic’s disapproval is too much right now. “She was flirting with the hotel clerk,” Alex tells him. “After she was so awful to her. I dragged her off--”

“--like you do with me?”

“Like I do with you.” She’s thankful at least for the faint amusement in Nic’s voice rather than scorn and a hefty dose of _I told you so._ “But my key card wasn’t working, and when I went back down…”

“...she was flirting with the clerk.” He makes a small noise, almost noncommittal. “And that bothers you because…?”

“Because I knew she didn’t mean it.” The answer comes out before Alex can fully process she’s let it find air, and she blinks at the off-puttingly beige wall in front of her. It gives her no answers, but at least it doesn’t judge, either. “Because she didn’t mean it,” she repeats, softer this time, tracking the faint textured stripes of the wallpaper. “Because she was doing it to get a rise out of me when she figured out I had interrupted, and she was doing it to...well, she had gone down to apologize, but she couldn’t have known I was coming back down because of my key card? So maybe she meant it at first, but she _didn't_ once she saw I was watching. I just...I can’t trust her, Nic. That’s what it is. I can’t trust her. I got in a car with her, and I’m supposed to help her pick apart and disprove this black tape, but she’s shielding herself in so many lies that I can’t…”

“Alex. Hey, take a breath, okay?”

She does. _I’m just tired,_ she tells herself. _It’s been a long day, and it’s strange to see Dr. Strand again, after everything with the Unsound and the Torres family. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I know I get...well, I get like this when I’m tired. It’s okay. It’s okay._ “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I just hate not feeling like I can trust someone who has so much over me.”

“I know that feeling,” Nic agrees with an edged laugh, and they both know where the edges come from: two days stolen from his childhood by someone who painted himself as a family friend, locked in the dark, with a voice in his head that she has never been thoughtless enough to disbelieve. “But listen--it’s gonna be okay, Alex. I promise. It’s your superpower.”

“Sure.”

“No, really, it is.” He settles back again; she can hear his dog huff and then clamber into his lap. “Remember when we were first doing stuff for PNWS? And we did that series on the food carts? Almost everyone talked to both of us, and they were super friendly, and we thought it was going to be a cakewalk.”

In spite of the strange anxiety curling tar-thick in her belly, she smiles at the memory. “We ate so much fancy fried food. I think we confused content with calories.”

Nic snorts. “ _You_ confused content with calories. _I_ was a paragon of journalistic determination.”

“Lies. I saw you by the donut truck at _least_ three times.”

“Not my point!” He pauses. “Besides, the office was paying for it, and we were broke. Like I’ve ever said no to a free lunch. But anyway.” He pushes on, and she tries to smother her giggling. “Not everyone talked to us, remember? That guy who did the smoked pork wouldn’t talk to me at all, so I ended up sending you in, and he didn’t say a _word_ to you for two hours. Two hours! And you sat just in front of his cart, and you talked to everyone else who so much as made eye contact and sat down by you, and I was just getting ready to pack up and go home when he called you over.”

“Toby Jackson,” she remembers. “He’d moved up from Alabama. His dad taught him how to use a smoker, but his mother taught him how to cook.”

“See? You’ve got a head for this stuff. It’s why you’ve always been a better storyteller than me.” He brushes off her immediate protests. “It’s true. And then he talked to you for another forty-five minutes. He ended up telling you about that weird import ring with the technically-not-illegal Vegemite that some of the other cart owners were in on. Didn’t breathe a word of it to me.”

“But still--”

“No buts. People _want_ to tell you things, Alex. _That’s_ your superpower. So just...give it time to work on her, okay? Strand’s a tough one, but I bet she’ll come around.”

“So...now what?” Alex asks with a sigh. “I just do this investigation as if she’s not here and wait for her to get antsy enough to tell me the truth?”

“That’s what you did for our first group project in college,” Nic points out, “and that turned out all right, didn’t it?”

“Only because you can make a PowerPoint presentation. I did all the grunt work.”

On the other end of the line, he laughs. “You’re gonna be fine, Alex. Listen, I need to take the dog out and get started on dinner--you really should, too. I know how you get with a story.”

“Fine, _Dad_ ,” she says with a loving eye-roll. “We should just be a couple of days. I’ll check back with you tomorrow night?”

“Sounds good.” She hears him grunt as he pulls himself out of his couch--it’s well-worn and comfortable to point of consuming casual sitters--but before he hangs up, he chuckles a little to himself. “Oh, hey--did I tell you what Greta said she told Strand?”

Alex frowns. “Strand said she didn’t say anything.”

“That’s weird--Greta told me right after you both left. She said she doesn’t like Strand _at all._ ”

She grimaces. “Well, that’s nothing new.”

“No, but get this--she said when she went to go let her in the building? She said she’d go get you, right? And she told me she didn’t like the look on Strand’s face when she said that, so she told her--and this is a direct quote, Alex, I swear-- _you look like you want to eat her alive, but you’ll never get her out of your teeth._ ”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Alex asks, but she already knows _exactly_ what that means, at least in part. She had dismissed the look in Strand’s eyes earlier as interest, but she knows now--had know then, in some way that was closer to instinct than not--that it wasn't interest but hunger.

“Who knows?” Nic says, oblivious to the way she goes cold at the realization. “Greta’s always saying weird stuff like that, you know? No wonder Strand didn’t say anything about it--that’s _weird,_ even for her line of work.”

“Her line of work?” she repeats faintly.

“You know, debunking ghosts and demons and stuff.”

She forces herself to sound light and easy, but her mind is racing, and she half-tumbles off the bed to snag her laptop in an attempt to distract herself. “It _does_ sound like something out of a creepypasta, doesn’t it?”

“Right? ‘I Was A Journalist Until My Subject Threatened To Eat Me.’”

“Ew, seriously?” She flops back against the pillows and opens up her laptop, wincing at the blue-tinged light until her eyes adjust. “Besides, I thought that was the kind of thing you were worried about happening, since, you know, I’m so _besotted_ with her and everything.”

There is a moment as that sinks all the way through Nic’s head. “You know what, I’m going to put the boss hat back on and pretend you didn’t say that,” he says. “Because I know you wouldn’t insinuate to your boss that you would pull a ‘ladies who lunch’ with the subject of your podcast.”

“I’m not insinuating anything, Nic.”

“No, you’re right. You’d just tell me you wouldn’t and then you’d go and do it--”

“Nicodemus Alastair Silver, I will _stab you in your sleep_ \--”

“Alex, please, I’ve seen you pull over to shoo a duck out of the road. There’s no way you could even _poke_ me—”

“So I’m hanging up the phone now,” she says loudly. “And you’re going to think about about that time I called you Alastair for a week straight and how many ‘are you in a cult, Nic?’ interventions you had to sit through.”

He groans. “That’s _totally_ disproportionate—”

“Hanging up now!” 

“Love you, too,” he grumbles, but she hears the laughter in his voice anyway as she ends the call. Nic grounds her--he always has, even for as conspiracy theorist as he can get sometimes--and she turns back to her laptop, intent on ordering food, with a little bit more of her spine steeled. She checks her email first out of habit, then stops and stares at the newest one.

Strand isn't the only one who can keep some cards close to her chest, and this is one of Alex's own: a reply to an email she'd sent out earlier in the week to Crystal DeNevers, Fiona's older sister. It had been a throwaway hope that the woman would respond; she had been understandably close-lipped and had refused to talk to any reporters after her sister's demise. Alex had emailed her before she had even finalized plans with Strand in hopes that her own reputation and her studio's good name would be enough to sway Crystal into at least a cursory interview. 

Now, it looks like it has.

The response is brief. Her own email had been simple and kind, kinder even than she would normally send; she hadn't mentioned Strand at all. That gamble had apparently paid off, if the single line stating that she would be available for a call in two days is anything to go by. Alex sends a friendly confirmation quickly ( _because what if she doesn’t respond fast enough and Crystal reneges?_ ), making a mental note to adjust their itinerary accordingly.

It helps to have this, even if she's not keen on examining _why_ it does. She likes having a trick up her sleeve, another ace earned through her kindness, another point for being soft and compassionate in the face of horror. _Everything is a weapon in its time, Alex_ echoes Strand's voice in her head. She stares at the sent email with her usual sign-off ( _Thanks so much! With regards, Alex Reagan_ ), settles back against the pillows, and hopes she won't have to find out exactly how deep her instinctive smiles can slice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this an incredibly self-indulgent foray into platonic Nic and Alex because writing them bantering is one of my favorite things?
> 
> Yes. Yes, it is.


	6. Insufferable

“You’re early,” Strand says as soon as Alex enters the lobby the next morning at quarter past eight.

"So are you," Alex notes, not particularly kindly. Her room was pleasant enough, but the little coffeepot in it had refused to turn on, and she knows she's ursine before caffeine. “We said nine. This is definitely not nine.”

Strand hums a little, possibly in agreement, and Alex scowls at her. Of _course_ Strand looks like she's been up for ages already, all professional and sharp in stark black and soft, cool grays. Her hair is neatly curled, her makeup is subtle and refined, and there's just that hint of that strange clean and deep perfume on the air. It's too early for Alex to pretend that she's not jealous--she knows she couldn't pull off that kind of armor if she tried--but there is, she knows, more to it. It's the sartorial equivalent of watching Strand flirt with the clerk and not mean it; she _knows_ this is just polish, she _knows_ this is a facade, and the sudden gut-wrenching certainty that even the face that Strand might show her lover first thing in the morning would likely be just as much of a mask as this business casual get-up is deeply unpleasant.

Alex sighs and rubs at the circles under her eyes, nearly knocking off her glasses. She never sleeps well away from her own bed, and her dreams the night before had been unsettling but not memorable enough to pin down upon waking. "I'm going to go get coffee," she says abruptly. "I wanted to ask at the front desk--I'm sure there's a place in town or in Charlesworth, but I need it. I was going to get it before we met up this morning."

"I can drive either way," Strand offers. She doesn't bury her hands in her jacket pockets or fiddle with her hair or anything that obvious ( _and of course she wouldn't,_ Alex internally mutters, _because that wouldn't be maddeningly subtle enough for Regina Strand with her dual doctorates in skepticism and obfuscation_ ), but she does shift her weight slightly as if testing to see if her attempt at kindness could hold her weight.

"It's your car, and I'm pretty sure you didn't put me on the insurance," Alex points out, "so unless you’re sharing a Lyft with me, you're going to have to." She glances down. "You're not wearing your fuck-you heels today."

"My _what?_ "

"Your fuck-you heels." Alex tugs her messenger bag higher up on her shoulder and gestures at the far more sensible ankle boots Strand wears today. "Anyone else would have fuck-me heels, but you'd never make your footwear ask for _that_."

Strand arches a brow. "So they're a 'fuck you' instead of a 'fuck me'?"

"Every single thing about you is a 'fuck you' to something or other, Dr. Strand--other people, belief, ghosts. It doesn't just end with your academic prowess. It's pretty clear just looking at you that it extends to your wardrobe, too."

Her colleague says nothing but straightens the hem of her jacket; if it weren't for the faint line of pink striking across her cheeks, she would seem otherwise unaffected. Silence stretches between them, too long and too loud, and Alex is ready to break it just for their mutual sanity when Strand clears her throat. “I took the liberty of finding a few coffeeshops last night before I went to bed,” she says. “There are a few chains around, of course, if you don’t mind getting back on the highway, but there’s a mom-and-pop store just two miles from here that I think you’d like. They make their syrups in-house and work in partnership with a roaster that offers jobs and resources to the local homeless population.”

It’s Alex’s turn to stare, and she does; she knows how she herself would be in this situation (eyes lowered, posture carefully open, voice soft), and it is the precise opposite of Strand (direct gaze, almost oratorical stance, firm tone). Nevertheless, this is recognizable as a peace offering, and she knows she’s too un-caffeinated to avoid accepting it. “I...I _would_ like that,” she replies after a moment. “Not that I mind Starbucks, but I’d rather get something local if I can.”

“I know.” Strand nods in the direction of the main entrance. “Shall we?”

Bemused, she follows Strand out the doors to the parking lot; the clerk (noticeably not Miranda) doesn’t bother to look up as they pass. Strand unlocks the doors to her rental car with a press of a button and slings her bag in the backseat with something almost like ease. Silently, Alex gets in the passenger seat and settles her bag at her feet. She doesn’t say a word as her colleague gets in, starts the car, and heads out to the road.

The radio is on, playing low, though in their quiet, it’s a third party in the conversation they’re not having. _When I’m driving in my car and the man comes on the radio,_ sounds the raspy male voice, _he’s telling me more and more about some useless information--supposed to fire my imagination--_

Alex snorts and leans her head against the window. Strand’s gaze flickers over, but she doesn’t say anything, either.

_I can’t get no satisfaction--_

Out of the corner of her eye, Alex can see Strand’s hands tighten on the wheel again, and she wonders if this is going to be the litmus test for her colleague’s moods from now until the end of time.

_\--I try, and I try, and I try, and I try--_

Strand clears her throat. "Are you ready for the festival today?"

_\--I can’t get no--_

She could, she knows, ignore Strand, continue looking out the window at the dark green trees and the pale gray morning light like the forest will grow a mouth and speak some fundamental truth to her, but Dr. Regina Strand has never been someone to ignore. Not for long. Not forever. Her name had come up more often than it hadn’t, and Alex believes in enough of the universe to know a sign when she sees one, so she sighs and shifts a little so she can glance over at her colleague.

“I’ll be readier after I’ve had coffee,” she says finally. “I’m much better at being a person after I’ve had a cup or two. Maybe three, given how everything’s been going so far.”

She can’t resist the dig, but this is familiar, too--it feels like whenever she and Nic fight (often) and make up (thankfully just as often). They squabble like siblings and make up like siblings, too, and she knows how this _should_ go: either with a fond, heavy sigh just this side of theatrical or with a dig at her caffeine problem. 

Strand, expectedly, does neither: she tilts her head just a fraction to the side, considers, then nods once, decisively. “I don’t drink coffee,” she says after a moment, “but I think today might be a good day to start, don’t you?”

Surprised, Alex moves upright in her seat to settle back against it instead of the window. “I think every day is good day to start coffee.”

"And what might you recommend, then, Alex?"

 _It's too early to unpack exactly why I like it when she says my name like that,_ Alex reasons, and she's under-caffeinated enough to let that weak deflection slide. "You're a tea drinker, and I know you drink green tea," she says, knowing that anyone who had the misfortune to be with them in the tea aisle of that Freddy's _also_ knows Strand's tea preferences. "So I'd probably start you off with a medium roast. Probably an African blend. There are some Ethiopian ones I think you’d like."

"Not a light roast?" 

_Okay, so that's amusement, right?_ "I saw how much honey you put in," she points out, and yes, that is a decidedly amused glint in her colleague's eye and a little wry smile tugging at the rosy corner of her mouth. She swallows and barrels on; coffee, at least, is easy enough to understand and comfortingly familiar. "But you brewed the tea strong. You have a sweet tooth, but you want the base taste to come through. Light roasts can disappear under too much sugar or cream, so...medium. And Ethiopian beans can have some nice floral notes to them. You spent a long time debating between the jasmine green tea and the single-origin one."

“You put a lot of thought into that,” Strand notes as she pulls off the road and into the parking lot of the coffeeshop.

“It’s coffee. I always put thought into coffee. I mean, usually it’s ‘how much coffee can I have today?’ but…”

Strand laughs as she parks, turns off the car, and gets out; to Alex’s surprise, she even comes around and opens the door for her. “I suppose there are worse habits you could develop,” she says, leading the way to the front door. “Gambling. Retail therapy. Nail biting.”

“Skeptic wrangling?”

For a moment, Strand’s hand stills on the door handle. “That’s not the habit I’d prefer you to associate with me,” she tells Alex, her expression almost unreadable. “But I suppose it will do for now.”

There’s something in her eyes that slides that possibility of more decidedly wicked habits across the table of this conversation like a salary offer hidden inside a folded piece of paper, but before Alex can fully process it, Strand has ushered them both inside the little coffeehouse. _It’s definitely a good time for a distraction,_ Alex tells herself, mostly to avert the sudden ache to know exactly what it might be like to take every single one of Strand’s loaded statements as direct flirtation and respond in kind. 

Thankfully, the shop is quaint enough to distract her. The log-studded exterior had promised a kind of woodsy charm, and that carries through to the interior, all bare wood walls and rustic tables and chairs. Two pillars made of what look like whole tree trunks stand guard in the middle of the seating area, and large windows let early morning light spill through while letting the dark bank of the forest peer inside at the customers. Mismatched mugs line the long shelf built under the bar, and as Alex watches, the customer ahead of them picks out what is likely her favorite and hands it to the barista to fill. There’s pleasant music hovering just on the edge of hearing; she doesn’t recognize it and suspects it’s probably a local artist, given the posters and community bulletin board that takes up most of the wall by the door. It’s not a fancy place, but she likes it better for how authentic it feels; the atmosphere feels routine and comfortable, the ease of it carrying over and settling her whirring mind, at least a little.

“Hey there, strangers,” the barista greets them as they approach the counter. “You must be in for the festival. What can I get started for you?”

“Just a small of the Ethiopian,” Strand answers, almost immediately, and Alex wonders exactly how much of the menu the other woman had memorized while she was categorizing the interior decorating in a not-at-all-desperate attempt to avoid shattering professional boundaries. “And a large raspberry mocha for my colleague, if you would.” She pauses, glances back to Alex, and smiles with unnerving sincerity. “With two extra shots.”

“Two extra shots?” Alex repeats.

“Ah, you’re right.” She turns back to the barista. “Make it three. I’ve been insufferable.”

The barista snorts and quickly rings up their order before marking the cups and heading over to the espresso machine. “Go ahead and slide your card whenever you’re ready, Madam Insufferable.”

“I can get my--”

Strand looks back over her shoulder, one brow perfectly arched. “Allow me, Alex. Please.”

Alex groans and rolls her eyes. “Of _course_ you’re going to be nice and buy me a coffee when I’m not done being irritated with you.”

It’s a gamble, even with her laughter running underneath it, but to her delight, Strand actually seems to pick up on it. “Yes, I’m just terrible,” the others woman agrees with a tilted smile. “But I _am_ Madam Insufferable, after all. I’d hate to disappoint.”

“Well, thank you,” Alex says as they move down the counter to where the barista is making her drink; Strand’s to-go cup is already waiting. “I’m always nicer after coffee.” She shifts a little from foot to foot, watching the barista work, and the combination of deeply socialized manners and the quiet contentment she’s always found while she watches competent people do their jobs gives her the bravery that normally coffee alone could provide. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier today.”

She can feel Strand look over to her-- _that_ particular feeling is familiar. The faint surprise she can feel rolling off the woman is not. “About my shoes?” Strand asks after a moment.

She shakes her head. “No, I think calling them fuck-you heels is pretty accurate. I meant about your whole…” She waves a hand over her colleague. “ _Thing._ I was irritated, and I hadn’t slept well, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, and I’m sorry.”

Wordlessly, the barista places Alex’s drink on the counter, but before Alex can reach out for it, Strand picks it up and carefully hands it to her. “You’re right,” she says after a moment. “You shouldn’t have taken it out on me. But saying that ignores the other aspect of this, and that needs to be noted as well.”

Alex opens her mouth to ask what the hell _that_ even means, but the barista interrupts quickly. “Sorry to butt in, but there’s cream and stuff over by the window,” she says. “I’m guessing you’re in town for the Festival of the Upside-Down face, so I figured you’d want to get going soon. Trust me, parking is _bonkers_ if you don’t get there early enough.”

“It’s that big of a thing, then?” Alex asks.

The barista snorts. “Oh, yeah. It’s been a huge deal for as long as I can remember. I mean, it first took off when I was just a kid, but--”

“So what exactly do you _do_ at the festival, then? I know people wear masks, but…”

“Masks. A lot of alcohol, usually. There’s a costume contest for the older kids, and a raffle--a lot of local businesses chip in. The kids have a sort of nursery rhyme that they like to sing, too. It’s not accurate or original, but it rhymes, and that’s what’s matters when you’re a kid, you know?”

“You know it?”

The barista laughs. “Of course I do. I used to sing it around the house when I was little for a couple weeks leading up to it. Drove my mom absolutely nuts. She ended up getting me a Spice Girls CD just to shut me up one year.” She winks, then stands up straighter, squares her shoulders, and recites in a sing-song voice, “ _Pretty Cathy won first place, then Sarah Bennings stole her face. Slit her throat and popped her eyes when Pretty Cathy got the prize._ ” She shrugs. “There’s like four more verses that no one can agree on, and I can guarantee you there’s going to be at least one playground shoving match over it. There always is. Kids, you know?”

“Of course.” Alex keeps her tone light, but this is definitely not something she wanted to hear before her coffee. “Kids and murderous nursery rhymes have always gone together.”

“It does happen often,” Strand breaks in. “We talked about this yesterday, Alex. People will always invent rituals to stave off the fear of the unknown.”

Alex nods as the barista leans on the counter to listen. “So, nursery rhymes. All Souls Day. Dia de los Muertos.”

“And the Festival of the Upside-Down Face.” Strand nods. “Putting fear through a ritual allows for catharsis without being overwhelmed by it. It creates a script for people to follow, and in doing so, makes the fear something smaller and more palatable. Even when it’s not the original intent, that belated understanding allows for things to be processed and understood.”

“Like that ring around the rosie rhyme?” the barista interrupts.

“Precisely,” Strand agrees approvingly. “When it was first popularized in the late 1700s, it was a simple child’s game, but it was retroactively fitted to apply to the Black Death. Whether or not it was intended as such is almost irrelevant. People looked at the plague, at death, and at fear, and realized that something small and trivial could be used to contextualize it. It reduced the fear from a monster to something that even children could control, and in doing so, allowed it to be experienced, understood, and moved on from.”

There is a moment of silence. “So I take it you’re not in town just to get shit-faced and wear a mask during the daytime,” the barista says finally.

“Not exactly,” Alex says, hoisting her bag up higher on her shoulder. “I’m here with Pacific Northwest Stories--I’m doing a series about interesting people with interesting jobs, and my colleague is...well, I’d say she’s a professional skeptic. Would you agree to that, Dr. Strand?”

Strand laughs, and part of Alex thrills at the huffiness of it: if Strand can laugh like that, then her cold anger has thawed. “If I do, are you going to wrangle me still?”

“Clearly you need to be,” she shoots back. “You just started a lecture on fear in a coffeeshop without letting me have my coffee first.”

“Old habits,” Strand murmurs. 

“Well,” says the barista just a little too loudly, “I’m not sure what there really is to be skeptical about around here. The festival is pretty straight-forward.”

“But it’s a ghost story,” Alex points out. “At least, that’s what Wilson Pepper touted it as in order to start up the festival, right?”

The joviality fades from the barista’s face. “A ghost story,” she repeats. “That’s what people say?”

“Yes.” Alex frowns. “I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to people in Charlesworth yet, but the research that I’ve done already--”

“It’s not.”

“I’m sorry?”

The barista swallows and glances around before leaning forward. “It’s not just a ghost story,” she says, her voice low. “It really happened.”

“Catherine Williams’ murder was well-covered by the local media,” Strand interjects. “Certainly no one is objecting to _that_.”

“No, not that.” The barista’s voice is hardly above a whisper. “Wilson Pepper didn’t make up a lie to get the festival going. Charlesworth’s always been haunted, ever since the murder. Maybe before. But what they’re saying? About the girl with the upside-down face? She’s real. I’ve seen her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot shows up 12K late with locally-roasted coffee.


End file.
